


Drachenfutter

by Quilly



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, F/M, HSWC Bonus Round 2, and porrim is content to take advantage, in which cronus is a doofus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 06:38:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1848133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While this word literally means “dragon fodder,” it refers to a type of gift German husbands bestow on their wives “when they’ve stayed out late or they have otherwise engaged in some kind of inappropriate behavior” – gifts like chocolates or flowers or a nice bottle of perfume.</p>
<p>Or, Cronus done goofed and is prepared to pay a hefty price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drachenfutter

**Author's Note:**

> Posting bonus fills some more!

Your name is Cronus Ampora and you’re in for it now, buddy.  
  
You told Porrim you were just going out with the guys. Innocent enough, right?   
  
That was before the video of you doing body shots off of some random dude’s abs got put on your Trollbook profile. Among other things. There was also the kinda toothy makeout with Damara to explain. And the tattoo. And the missing fang. And the bar fight you lost the tooth in. And the motorized vehicle parked in her front lawnring.  
  
Okay, you have a lot of things to apologize for, but no need to panic, you’ve got this. You’re just gonna…you’re just gonna present your kismesis with her favorite food, that’s all.  
  
She’s gonna eat you, your pan whispers as you knock on her door. She’s gonna eat you and you’re gonna like it.  
  
She opens the door, a smile on her face, but the smile is worse than yelling; it’s calm and placid and could hide practically anything. You swallow hard, then tilt your head back.  
  
“Sorry,” you say, and she pulls you inside, closing the door behind you.  
  
“Seems a pretty drastic measure to take for a guy who just went out and partied on our anniversary weekend,” she says in clipped tones that suggest it’s not a drastic measure at all. You flinch.  
  
“Can we get this over with?” you grunt. Grunt. Not squeak. “You can drink your fill, assumin’ I’ll survive the experience, and we call it even.”  
  
She grabs your wrist and draws you closer, curling her fingers in your hair and gently guiding your head back. She puts her nose close to the sensitive skin there and sucks in a deep breath. You shiver.  
  
“Cronus,” she says against the skin of your neck, and you feel the flat of her fangs, “this is overkill for an apology gift.”  
  
“Suck my blood, Porrim,” you say, and she obliges you with an amused hum.  
  
(You were right, you did kind of like it.)  
  
(You mean, right up until the point where you almost passed out, but hey, she didn’t nag you or nothing about your weekend, so win-win, right?)  
  
(You wish you felt more secure in that, because the next time you screw up her eyes flick to your jugular and, well, if this is gonna become a habit, you’re gonna need a lot of donuts and juice boxes to keep your strength up.)


End file.
